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Torvald of the Blodørn
The Weave of the Norns The westward wind’s frigid embrace, sea salt coating a healthy layer of itself onto my tribesmen and I, and the sound of the helmsman’s drum keeping our oars to the beat of the waves. There is only one thing going though the mind of those on board the Sjokthaken: Glory. Not for the thrill of battle, nor the riches that would come from this raid, but to bring honor to those that have fought before us, those that have a seat in the longhouse of the Alvader. We have been manning the oars for roughly a fortnight, but like a hound that tracks its prey, the ever euphoric scent of easy prey catches our noses to push ever forward. The beating of the drums cease, for though the tides rage on, our bounty is close. The land of Oden, where weak men ilk a living on substance farming, and pretender Kings fatten themselves off of the impotent whelps. A perfect target. It is only the natural order of things; we are the sons and daughters of the Blood Eagle, and as such, we have a right to challenge all those that have the audacity to claim such resources without the proper strength to keep it. We make sure that those who dare disrupt the natural order are tempered with the one thing that makes hunting prey even more fulfilling: Fear. The light of the waxing crescent details the eagle’s head carved from bone of a giant fell beast whom was bested by our tribe, for it is tradition to adorn those that have fallen by our tribe to be messengers of our future prey what lies ahead of their fate. The eagle’s head pointed to our next quarry; a town, couldn’t be more than a thousand at most, revealed itself off in the distance. This series of hovels and shacks held a secret that was revealed by our wise men and shamans, and it is now time to relinquish what these southerners dare to call their own. With nothing but the motion of the waves guiding us towards the shore, we steel ourselves for our next challenge. We make a silent prayer to The Weeping Raven, to carry the souls of the fallen into her mournful embrace, and to our ancestors to guide our weapons and ensure the southerners meet their doom. A familiar thud from the bottom of our long ship signals our departure from the oars, and forward onto glory. I grab hold of my weapons, spear in hand, and jump off into the sandy beach below. My feet do not seem to make contact though, and upon where I should be moving forward with my comrades, I find my self sinking into the depths. Further, and further down into the infinite blackness of the sea, the outline of the Sjokthraken shrinks evermore until there is nothing but darkness. I try to scream, but my throat produces no sound. I try to move, but in every direction there is nothing but the same consuming void. My lungs seem to collapse under the pressure, but I remain conscious. Even seeming to go as far as being able to breath despite the unfamiliar medium I find myself in. “''What in the name of the seven is going on?” I ponder, still enamored by the blackness engulfing me. I attempt to move, but when I try to propel my body forward, my muscles seize as if thousands of daggers have pierced through them. I try to break the grasp, biting hard to command my body to escape this hollow void, but to no end. Off in the distance, a brackish green light pierces the veil; even for how far away it seems to be, it radiates a warmth greater than any hearth in the holds from my home. The light pulls me towards it, as if I have been hooked from a fishing line. A faint voice, sounding as if it was a boy no more than six or seven winters old, enters my mind. “''Papa, what does it mean to be a great warrior?” Was this disembodied voice asking me this? As soon as this voice asked, I saw an image cascade from the green light; that of a boy, sun kissed skin, and eyes that appear to have seen a thousand battles. As the image passed, another voice – one that was gruffer and deeper – passed through my head. “Was a good catch this time around, should have enough for the winter time.” this time, the image was a bearded man, tattoos across his face that signified being part of the Lohi tribe, holding up what looks to be a fin from a mighty whale. Another, passing though my skull, this time an older female, singing a lullaby to what appears to be a new born babe. As I look past, there are more voice popping in my head; ones talking about death, deception, good harvests, even more death, screaming on the battle field. As the number of voices grew, so to, did the intensity of the light. My skull almost splitting with the number of voices and thoughts in my head, and the intensity of the ray piercing through my soul, there was suddenly silence. The light appeared to shutter for a moment, and then back to blackness. The void; no land marks to gain my bearings, no call of any animal. Nothing. “Damn it all!” my mind racing of a way to escape this sorcery, I soon was met with what appeared to be a Krackens Eye, radiating the same green hue that populated the void previously. The eye blinks a few times, almost as pondering the still image of my silhouette. I continue to protest the invisible binding that my body seems to be locked in; forcing every fiber of my will to hopefully gain a few feet away from this hellish abomination. But it’s no use; my eyes, fixated on the enamoring gaze that pierces through all hope of resistance, cannot escape this beings grasp. A few more moments pass, when a final voice – this one, deep and omnipresent, as if 10 dragons were speaking at once – pierces my mind. “Torvald…” How does it know who I am? What the hell is this thing!?! “You let them die…all of them… your comrades… your wife… your unborn child… all because of your weakness… Son of the Blood Eagle…” No. No that’s not true! We were out numbered, the damned cowards using the dead against us! “Their souls were… Delicious… the taste of easy prey… nothing sweeter… you said so yourself…” No! No! No! No! No! No! You have no right you fucking abomination! Release them at once! “You will fail… Son of the Blood Eagle… you cannot save them… you cannot bring them back… they… are… MINE!!!” it exclaimed, and with it came a flash of light so bright that it engulfs the once brackish void. The light piercing my body to the bone, but with it, I feel a sense of mobility again. “Freedom!” I think rapidly to my self, and with out a moments hesitation, I grip my club, and glide forward to the disembodied eye. "RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH” My eyes open immediately, Mace in hand, ready to meet any opposing threat; only to be met with the same blizzard barely a foot away from my shelter’s entrance, and the heavy breathing of another restless night. No void, no giant green eye, and no voices piercing my brain. Just another dream. A nightmare. Category:Biographies